


Questions Without Answers

by scgirl_317



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scgirl_317/pseuds/scgirl_317
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag for 2.3 “The Reichenbach Fall.” A little “what if?” dealing with John catching sight of Sherlock at the cemetery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Questions Without Answers

John forced his mind to remain blank on the return to the empty flat. If he allowed his mind to wander as it wished, he knew he would not make it home. He therefore went through the motions of hailing a taxi to take him and Mrs. Hudson home to Baker Street with the same conscious thought he put into tying his shoes.

Continuing his mindless steps, John poured a glass of scotch, promptly downing it in one go before pouring another and going to the sofa. As soon as he slouched back into the cushions, his mind took off. In the center of the dizzying swirl of thoughts and emotions was one fact.

Sherlock was alive.

John knew it as certain as he knew his own name. It hadn’t been a figment of his imagination or a mirage brought on by grief. Sherlock Holmes had somehow, miraculously, faked his most gruesome suicide.

The brilliant, beautiful, wonderful, arrogant son of a bitch was alive.

John didn’t know which he wanted to do more, kiss him or punch his lights out.

Surely Sherlock knew what his “death” had done to John? The army doctor was fully aware that his limp had returned, but there was nothing he could do about it. Sherlock was wrong; it wasn’t the danger that John missed, but the feeling that there was someone to watch his back. That feeling had vanished the second Sherlock had stepped off of that roof.

How could he do this? John still had the utmost faith in Holmes, and he knew that Sherlock never did anything without a good reason. John also appreciated the necessity for secrecy. Whatever Sherlock was up to, John doubted he could do it with the police nipping at his heels, calling him a fugitive and a murderer. (Even as he had that thought, a slight smile formed as he could picture Sherlock scolding him for the use of such a mundane cliché. The smile died as fast as it appeared.)

John just wished that Sherlock could have left him some sign, some indicator that he was still alive, so he wouldn’t have had to go through the gut-wrenching anguish that had gripped him when he turned the bashed and bloody body over to reveal Sherlock’s face. Even after his time in Afghanistan, John had never experienced such grief, and he prayed to any god that would listen that he never felt it again.

Sherlock had to know. John supposed that was what the brief sighting at the cemetery was about. That was his sign. It was a little late, but John supposed it was better than nothing.

John took a shaky breath. There was nothing for it. Sherlock had done what he thought was best, however he had managed to pull it off. John was left wondering what he was supposed to do now, though. There was no telling how long it would take Sherlock to do whatever he needed to do. He couldn’t afford to stay in the flat, despite Mrs. Hudson’s assurances that he could stay as long as he wanted. John felt like he was back where he had been before he met Sherlock.

All John could do was hope that Sherlock would let him know whenever he was done.


End file.
